


Inferno

by Azhika



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 16:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14572749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azhika/pseuds/Azhika
Summary: At the end of S03 E10 “Lantern”, we saw the beginnings of a house fire. How do the people closest to the inhabitant react – to the situation and each other?





	1. Chapter 1

When the phone rings in the middle of the night, it's never going to be good news.

For several moments the ringtone invaded Jimmy's dream: an invasive, insistent melody interrupting the flow of his chair yoga class. Turning the dials on his headset, he looked up distractedly at the bemused faces of his pupils and tried to form an apology.

"It's, uh. What's it – bear with me, folks..."

The noise was blaring from the speakers with increasing obnoxiousness. His class started shuffling in the seats. The feeling of urgency grew, and Jimmy fumbled more frantically.

“Houston, we have a problem!” he offered with pathetic joviality.

Irene peered confusedly. Jimmy woke up.

He made a grab at the luminous screen and rolled back with the cordless in his hand, cautiously shifting his weight on the couch cushions and half sitting up. _Howard Hamlin cell_ read the screen.

"Howard?"

There was a small pause.

"Jimmy."

Another hesitation, then Howard's voice came on the line again, sounding unsteady and irresolute: "It's your brother. Chuck's - there's been some kind of -"

Jimmy's stomach dropped.

"I got a call – can you just come over? To his house?"

Jimmy's mouth was dry. The first sound of his agreement was inaudible, but then his voice kicked back in, and "-es" seemed to be enough, because Howard cut off.

He dressed by the light of a table lamp, flinging on yesterday's grey sweater and the jeans lying on the floor, legholes still pooled inside the waistband from when he had stepped out of them just hours earlier. He stuffed his shoes on, the heels flapping quietly on the carpet as he tiptoed over to the bedroom.

Kim's arm in its cast was spread over Jimmy's side of the bed and she was breathing evenly, still deeply asleep. He didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. A surge of guilt twisted his insides: another McGill fuck-up. He was forcibly reminded of a different night, months ago: scrambling out of that same bed, leaving her, driving off with a similar pit of dread settling in his stomach. That time Kim had been coolly sitting up against the pillows, her pen scratching across her notepad, deftly reminding Jimmy to dot his i's and cross his t's – at the copy shop, duh. Now her arm was injured, her face still healing up, and her office in boxes. Jimmy screwed his eyes half-shut and pulled the door closed just with barely a click.

The air outdoors was close and sticky. There was a feeling of imminence, momentousness. Jimmy's stomach felt like it was caught mid-flip: A phone call from Howard. At one in the morning. Howard's voice faltering. Jimmy's fingers tapped out an incessant rhythm on the steering wheel. The streetlamps washed his face and throat in a sickish yellow glow, stripe after stripe.

The thought of Chuck was ballooning up through his mind, pounding through every shoddy barrier he'd placed in its path. Since their last, terrible, terribly calm, terribly _measured_ meeting, he'd resolutely pushed his brother out of his mind. Stamp, stamp, kick. Don't go there. Now the word _CHUCK_ was screaming around in Jimmy's head, complete with visuals: green woollen cardigan, icy blue eyes, dispassionate expression. Jimmy increased the volume on CHUCK just in case any audio from that conversation tried to weasel its way in. He could cope with snapshots, maybe a silent film. No surround sound, and definitely no previews.


	2. Chapter 2

Even before he rounded the bend of San Cristobal Road, Jimmy knew, in his heart of hearts, what he would find. He'd been predicting it, almost flippantly, for months: to the bar association, to Chuck, to himself. Testing out the feel of it; acknowledging it; using it. The punch in the guts was no less vicious, in the end.

Bright blue lights cut crisply through the dull orange glow and smoke teased the back of his throat through the open car windows. Several pale figures in bathrobes were milling about in the street. Jimmy leant on his horn and they leapt back. He cut the corner and didn't even park; virtually fell out of his vehicle and let it roll on without him. The weight in his stomach seemed to have spread through his entire body.

For a moment he paused, crouching like a sprinter, tarmac digging into his fingertips, his eyes fixed on the scene a hundred yards before him. Chuck's house was a conflagration. Flames were leaping out of the roof, adding an extra ten feet to its height. They were licking out of the upstairs windows and brushing the gutters. Downstairs, the living room windows were dark, gaping holes backlit with an eerie red glow. The firefighters didn't seem to have managed to make it very far in at all.

Jimmy scrambled to his feet and beat a path through the flimsy cordon towards the living room windows. Chuck would have been at his desk, or on the couch, reading, surrounded by books, bookshelves, wooden panelling. Jimmy felt like he was running through molasses. He tensed his legs, even strained his shoulders, trying to push through the syrup holding him back, but his surroundings barely seemed to move.

_CHUCKCHUCKCHUCK_

A firefighter lurched across his path. Jimmy adjusted his course and made to dart round him. A huge, rough paw grabbed his upper arm and swung him round.

“CHUCK!”

Hands in huge, coarse gloves gripped his shoulders. His forehead knocked against a hard plastic brim in the half-light. Eyes desperately searched for his from behind a visor.

“Sir, you can't come any closer. Sir, please, stand back.“

Jimmy wrenched from side to side. “My brother's in there! Where's my brother!” Smoke caught in his throat, dry, airy and solid and the same time.

“Sir, trust me when I say our people are doing the best they can. Please leave this to us. How 'bout you come -”

A shout went up from the firefighters next to the house. There was rapid movement as people fell back. The firefighter gripping him glanced over Jimmy's head. Jimmy twisted round in time to see the central part of the roof give way, hurling a cloud of sparks into the night air. A wave of heat rolled over them all.

Jimmy tore himself from the man's grasp. He stumbled onwards, half running, his bare face starting to really smart and his throat closing up. It occurred to him that he should perhaps head left, towards to the garage: that place was nice and cool – shouldn't be part of the collapse – no firefighters blocking the way – can get right in through there - 

A sudden, strangled cry from somewhere on the road cut through the low rumble of burning property. Someone in white seemed to have ducked under the cordon and was making indecisive darting movements, striking out towards him and faltering back again. Jimmy pumped his arms faster.

_CHUCKCHUCKCHUCK_

An outraged yell sounded from the firefighters on his right, the ones who had fallen back. A couple started towards him. _I'm going to make it_ , thought Jimmy. _They're all way out of reach. I'm gonna make it._

And then came a great blast. A deep roar, followed almost instantaneously by a crescendo that threw Jimmy effortlessly onto his back. His ears rang. The blackness round the edges of his vision telescoped in until the orange glare vanished completely.


	3. Chapter 3

When Jimmy came to, he was lying on a stretcher. The sky above him still glowed orange and an ambulance was idling behind him. A cool pack was on his forehead and he realised with a wince that his whole head hurt. A paramedic had his wrist in a light grip.

“Sir, can you breathe all right?“

Jimmy nodded, making the blood pound and echo in his ears.

“Great. You're doing just great.“

“Wh-“ Jimmy coughed, flailed his arm out of the paramedic's hold, and used the resulting momentum to heave himself up. Tunnel vision toyed with him again, and he tried blinking it away. He gave his question another shot.

“Where's my brother?“ The last bit came out in a wheeze.

“Have some water. Just small sips.“ 

A firefighter jerked into view. “How much kerosene? How many kerosene cans were in the garage?“

Jimmy's insides twisted. He shook his head and managed an almost-shrug. God, his shoulders were on fire. He couldn't look at the house.

“Sir, there've been two explosions so far and we need to know...“

Jimmy looked at the ground and tuned him out.

 

He sensed, dully, people coming and going; stopping and talking; addressing him and giving up; an ebb and flow. A rushing in his ears.

On the ground in front of him appeared a pair of white sneakers, the newness and shine still obvious in between patches of soot. Hands clasped his upper arms again, but gently. A familiar voice was saying his name. He looked up. 

Howard was looking back at him, his expression concerned. “Jimmy,“ he repeated.

Jimmy stared back, bewildered. Howard was in navy sweatpants and a T-shirt. More incredibly, there were big sooty handprints on the rumpled, no longer white shoulders and he had smudges on his face. The pause stretched.

“You've got black on you,“ Jimmy finally croaked out.

Howard sighed. “Do you want to go to the hospital?“

Jimmy shook his head. Looked back at Howard's sneakers. “Where's Chuck?”

Howard went to confer with the paramedics.

 

“Do you have someone at home who can look after you? Sir?“ The paramedic was trying to get hold of his wrist again. Jimmy shook him off. He thought of Kim with her bust face, bust arm.

“Not really.“

“Well, sir, did you get what we were telling you earlier, about looking after your-?”

Jimmy nodded absently. “Yep.”

There was some more conferring. Jimmy concentrated on the stray bits of gravel strewn across the tarmac, then let his eyes unfocus.

“Sir? Sir, your friend has offered to have you stay with him. So you're going to go with him now, OK?” The paramedic stooped down in front of Jimmy, trying to catch his gaze.

Jimmy looked at Howard. Howard's face was carefully impassive, all traces of concern gone. Some tightness remained around his eyes, his jaw. But to a casual observer, Howard had it all under control. Sonofabitch, thought Jimmy.

“OK,” he said.

“But if you experience any dizziness, nausea, blurred vision, you call us right away, OK?”


	4. Chapter 4

Jimmy trailed slowly after Howard. A familiar yellow shape on the other side of the road brought him up short.

“My car,” he mumbled. It was half on the sidewalk and half rammed into the neighbour's tree. The driver's side door was still open. Jimmy felt the sudden, absurd urge to cry: to grieve the passing of his faithful, two-tone steed. The end of an era.

Howard stopped and turned to face him. Jimmy looked the other way, fighting for composure.

“Jimmy, we'll sort it out in the morning. It's fine. We're taking my Jag,”

_It's not fine_ , Jimmy wanted to say. _Nobody's answered me straight_. But he knew Howard wasn't referring to that, and given the circumstances there was no relish to be had from making a scene. Also, Howard was looking almost out of sorts – as much as it was possible for Howard to look anything other than poised – and Jimmy did not want to push him any further. Tonight was scary enough. He swallowed and willed his legs to carry him to Howard's car, parked slightly askew just up the road.

He couldn't move. Howard took a step towards him.

“I – I drove really fast to get here,” said Jimmy, filling the space between them with words so that Howard couldn't get any nearer. “That's why it's all...” he gestured at the tree, still not able to look in Howard's direction. _Please don't notice I'm stuck to the ground_ , he thought, _or nearly in tears about a fucking car_. “I didn't have time to put it in park,” he finished lamely, voice hitching on the last word.

Howard took another step, tentative this time, and opened his mouth to say something, his forehead creased with concern. Then his gaze was suddenly caught by something going on behind Jimmy's head, and he fixed on that, intent, wordless.

Jimmy found he could pivot slowly, as long as his feet didn't move from that spot. The blaze had been extinguished but for a couple of solitary spots on what was left of the upper floor and some smoking beams. But that wasn't what had caught Howard's attention.

Blue light swept over a group of firefighters bunched up in front of the living room windows, walking stiffly but with a certain coordination. They were carrying a long, irregular object. Darkness swallowed the scene once more. Jimmy squinted.

The group was lit up again, suddenly, electrifyingly, in blue, and he saw a dark shape on a stretcher. Odd traces of silver glinted out from among the charring. Jimmy felt like he was watching himself from far away. By the time the next blue strobe came around, the firefighters had huddled round their burden, shielding it from the road.

Jimmy was brought back to himself by a choked sob. Behind him, Howard's hands were covering his face and they were trembling. Jimmy stared, shocked, before he remembered himself and looked away politely. This was surreal. This was horrifying. This was undoubtedly the worst fucking night of his life – yet he found himself oddly disconnected. The bottom of his stomach seemed to have plunged down to below his knees, but his thoughts and emotions were muffled and slow. _That was Chuck_ , he tried saying to himself. _Chuck is dead_. But it seemed like something he knew in principle, rather than something he could feel.

He risked another glance. Howard was still crying, his chest heaving. Fuck. _Too bad he isn't wearing his suit_ , thought Jimmy, rather hysterically. _Or do people not blow their noses on pocket squares?_ He searched his jeans pockets without success. Maybe there'd be tissues in the glovebox? He tentatively reached out and touched Howard's arm.

“Hey,” he began. Howard didn't react.

Jimmy stretched his arm further, put it round Howard's shoulders. Howard's hands stayed glued determinedly to his face. Jimmy couldn't blame him.

“Howard, hey... Hey, let's walk over to your car now, OK? Have a sit-down...” Howard nodded minutely and with Jimmy's arm propelling him forward, walked unsteadily to the Jaguar. He leaned against the roof, face buried in the crook of his elbow, fishing in his pocket for the keys. _Poor bastard_ , thought Jimmy suddenly, _He is in way over his head here. This is about as far away from refinement as a Chicago sunroof_. The door locks clicked. _Although_ , he added, for the sake of fairness, _a cellar full of scotch will probably help some_.


	5. Chapter 5

Chuck's neighbours had rotten taste in garden décor, surmised Jimmy. A fat-cheeked cherub gleefully tipped water into a shell held up adoringly by a second, winged infant. Another peeked out cheekily from behind a rather bare trellis. Jimmy ground his cigarette under his heel and turned back to the car.

Howard was sitting facing the road, hands steady on the wheel and lips pressed tight. Jimmy slid in and risked another glance. No tear streaks, just reddish eyes and a lot of smudged soot. There was a pause. Jimmy cleared his throat.

"Ready when -" he started, just as Howard began, "Sorry about -" simultaneously. Howard increased the volume, "- that, Jimmy," he finished assertively, and started the engine as if to cover the awkwardness.

"'S fine," mumbled Jimmy, and looked out the window. They peeled away from the kerb and Howard executed a smooth U-turn. The engine throbbed quietly as they glided down the darkened residential streets. Jimmy was silent. Presumably they were headed to wherever Howard lived, which in normal circumstances would have piqued Jimmy's curiosity, but he was starting to feel rather trapped. He doubted he would find any guiding light, anything comfortingly familiar, when they got to Howard's. _No car, no Kim, no way out_.

His thoughts were interrupted by Howard quietly clearing his throat. They were on the I-25, heading north. He nodded to a billboard on the other side of the highway. Jimmy's billboard.

“I drive past that damn billboard every day, and every day I get to be relieved not to see your face on it,” he quipped.

Jimmy detected a certain underlying steel in his tone. “I got a different look now,” he answered easily.

One corner of Howard's mouth turned up in acknowledgement; a sort of forced half-smile. They turned east on to the I-40. Sandia foothills, recalled Jimmy. Naturally. The digital display read 03:11. He cast a quick glance at Howard, who looked exhausted. Not stayed-up-past-bedtime tired, but honestly harrowed. Apart from the deep purr of the Jaguar's engine and the occasional car whooshing past in the other direction, there was silence, but neither Jimmy nor Howard seemed to have enough energy to care about it.

Jimmy slowly let his head sink further and further back against the headrest. He definitely had a bump on the back of it. Sore, but not excruciating. He eased his head left and right, exploring its diameter.

“They gave you a once-over and assured me you weren't bleeding,” said Howard, looking like he wanted to say more.

“They'd better fu- they'd better have been right,” supplied Jimmy. He hadn't meant to be so obvious. “I can lay a Kleenex over the headrest, if you want?”

Howard was already shaking his head. “No, no, it's fine. Sorry. I… I didn't mean it like that.”

Jimmy shrugged – or tried to. A blast of pain that spasmed through his right arm and down his side arrested him halfway. He settled his shoulders back slowly and let his breath out with a quiet whoosh. “Ah-Actually, my shoulders are killing me. They feel like they've seized up or something.”

Howard glanced over shortly. “I'm not surprised,” he said. Then he did a double-take. “I mean, they did say, didn't they?”

“Say what? The paramedics? What...” Jimmy thought for a second. “I tuned them out, a bit,” he admitted.

Howard sighed. “The paramedics are pretty sure you don't have concussion, which is why I'm allowed to take you and not the hospital.”

_Why did you want to have me in the first place?_ Jimmy wondered, but didn't say. _And when am I allowed to leave you?_

“They said your shoulders might be pretty sore, because we- the firefighters dragged you away in such a rush,” Jimmy looked at Howard sharply, but Howard continued, “They don't look dislocated, though. You don't have any significant burns or scrapes, nothing that some antiseptic and regular bandaids can't take care of.”

Jimmy felt his thoughts coming together. “Was that you?” he said, eying Howard's once-white T-shirt. “When I was headed towards the garage?”

“You mean, was I the one waving like a lunatic, trying to stop you from running into certain death?” said Howard. There was an awkward pause. Jimmy couldn't quite muster the energy or depth of feeling for a rejoinder.

Howard gripped the wheel a little tighter and continued, “Sure. I saw you arrive. Saw your car. I was hurrying over to you but you sprinted off. You somehow managed to bypass the cordon, as well as several firefighters – one had you for just a second – and you seemed to be about to charge into the house.”

“I wanted to get Chuck,” mumbled Jimmy. “I didn't really have a plan.”

He sensed that only politeness was holding Howard back from pinching the bridge of his nose in vexation. Jimmy felt rather injured. 

“Look – it must have been... a very natural impulse.” Howard took his right hand off the wheel and started gesturing. “I shouldn't have been surprised. Of course you, Jimmy, of all people, would charge towards the fire without a moment's hesitation.”

Jimmy felt an awful twisting in his insides. He turned his head to look out of the side window. He didn't want to think about what sort of person he was. Or what sort of brother he was. Howard must have noticed his discomfort, because he abruptly continued.

“I saw you change tack for the garage, couldn't get nearer without risking my own life. I don't know how far you would have made it if the fuel hadn't gone up. You flew through the air. You honestly made about six feet. It was.. quite something.”

The Jag turned into the drive. “It was utterly fucking futile,” said Jimmy under his breath, letting the crunching of tyres in gravel mask his reply.


End file.
